


The Fall of Connaught

by Lightbringer34



Series: The Sons of the Harvest: A Warhammer 40k story [1]
Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Backstory for my Chaos Marines, I like the challenge of making a morally grey fall, Local Man Makes Bad Decisions, Other, it was just a question of in which direction, no matter what the Chapter was going to fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25366615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightbringer34/pseuds/Lightbringer34
Summary: The Sons of the Harvest are a Chaos Marine Warband interested in vengeance and trying to carve out their own identities as free Marines. This is the story of how they fell to Chaos.
Series: The Sons of the Harvest: A Warhammer 40k story [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1836928
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	The Fall of Connaught

The strictures of the Codex Astartes used to be guidelines, regular schedules and modes of deployment and squad structure. They kept the Chapter of the Emperor’s Harvesters strong, secure, and stable. The marines under its care were not exactly happy, but they were not miserable either. Chaplain Ghulo had spoken of hope as the first steps on the road to disappointment and cautioned against happiness for the same reasons. Most of the marines believed it and they were content.

Yes, that was the word, content. Happy with what they were given, their appointed place in the universe, which was to fight and die for the safety of Mankind. A Good purpose.

Then came the Catastrophe, the Chapter’s leadership structure decapitated and all the guardrails the Codex was supposed to provide bowled over like a sign in a hurricane. The remaining Chaplains preached of strength through adversity and the wisdom of their forbears in difficult times. Many of the marines believed it and they were patient. Those that did not believe were uncertain.

The remaining Council convened to choose the next Chapter Master, even summoning Ancient Ghûr from his slumber deep within the fortress monastery to provide council. Sergeants, Chaplains, Captains, none could quell the speculation rising from the lips of the lowliest serf to the libraries of the Codiciers. Everyone had a guess, a prediction, or an opinion. Many of the officer corps had a preference, either for their own advantage or the Chapter’s. It was not division, not yet, but it was strange to be strained like this, to be uncertain. Space Marines were bred and gene-forged to be tools of war with the minds of men. They did not deal with uncertainty well. Three squads were dispatched to put down an uprising from the underhive of their home planet of Connaught when one squad would have sufficed. Those squads sent were the rowdiest, the ones most prone to curses or snarling threats during sparring bouts or accidents in the mess hall. Accompanied by Chaplain Ghulo, everyone breathed a little easier once the Thunderhawk departed. When the hive detonated like an exploding volcano, molten metal pouring down its sides as the civilians screamed and rioted and died, there was no time for relief at all.

They never found the bodies of those three squads, or the Chaplain.

And of course, THAT was when the Council had announced their decision. Or rather, their lack of decision. Including Ghur, it had been a dead tie. Six votes to six votes. The Tenth Company Captain, Ausar the Survivor or Laurence of the First Company.

Laurence had been favored by many of the captains, as he was the better fighter and an even better flatterer. He would compliment earnestly and then keep going, lulling a listener in without them noticing he was doing it. He knew each captain’s preferences, their style of war, their planned promotions. From the outset, he was the clear favorite. He was young too, a meteoric rise in only 157 years from line Brother to Captain. But Ausar had what many felt the Chapter _needed_. He was steady, reliable, loyal, and blunt. He had survived the Dark Eldar and had lost his scouts as the lone survivor. His age was visible, for he had served as a Marine for 672 years, and had been Master of the Scouts for 272 of them.

Both spoke to the assembled Chapter, laying out their own goals and how each would shape the future of the chapter. Laurence’s speech called to the greatness in every Marine, called for glory reborn like a phoenix from the ashes of the hive city. He spoke of mighty battles and legendary warriors and marines cheered at his words. Ausar’s speech was shorter and contained a great deal less heroism, but he had plans. He admitted that survival was not always a tale to stir the blood, that changes were called for in a time of crisis and suggested the addition of an apothecary to each squad to ensure geneseed recovery and minimum training for all brothers. There was no cheering as Ausar laid out his plans, but a great deal more nodding. Sergeants and line brothers long accustomed to duty in the ranks saw a chance for something more, a chance to heal the fractured bonds of a Chapter strained by catastrophe and confusion. The votes would be cast once more and once again be tied, though several members of the Council had switched sides. In frustration, the Council decreed that the decision would be decided by the Emperor himself, through the right of Trial by Combat.

The weeks between the decision and the Duel were silent inside the Fortress-Monastery. Some marines were content with the decision, but many were not. It was rumored Laurence had bribed the Council to create a test in his favor, that Ausar even now sought supporters from squad sergeants and elites alike. Brothers walked the halls in groups and every once in a while, fingers would twitch towards a bolt pistol…

It was impossible to fit so many watching marines into the sparring cages, so the Planetary Governor had cleared the capitol’s Brutball arena for the duel and even, at the Chapter’s permission, broadcast it across the planet. The marines, in full battle plate each occupied two or three of the stone seats, while the Dreadnought Ghûr took up half a row and the three behind him due to his height. Bets were placed, drinks were purchased, and every citizen of Connaught held their breath for two hours and twenty-six minutes.

The duel was to third blood and many of the observers had expected it to last ten minutes, at most. Laurence had been the Captain of the First Company, a close-combat specialist, while Ausar had been leading scouts. Maybe he’d have had a better chance in marksmanship or capture the flag, but those were not ways to decide the future of an entire Chapter. However, Ausar surprised them all. He was not old, as Marines are old, in a lethal manner only slightly less committed to each strike. Instead he was fast and flexible, and bounced off the walls like an Eldar Banshee. He held only two combat knives with a reserve hand axe strapped to his back and wielded them like extensions of his own body.

Laurence’s master-crafted power sword was a blur, describing elegant arcs and patterns around his body that prevented Ausar for closing for knife work and scored first blood. Those who would look could see the smirk on the Captain’s face as he drove Ausar back, and back and back across the grassy field.

Then something in Ausar changed, some decision he’d made inside himself or some realization dawning and he set his stance. His face remained set in a frown of gritted teeth and concentration, but he was no longer retreating.

His knives came up and down, then flashed as he switched hands and grips simultaneously. He scored first and second blood in rapid succession as Laurence was surprised by the change in both style and aggressiveness. Soon both were fighting with no reserve, superhuman muscles straining and sweat pouring down their faces as Laurence scored second blood across Ausar’s forehead, sending blood cascading into his eyes.

Both marines were leaving it all on the floor, nothing held back, no mercy. Some of the more experienced in the audience, marines and Guard officers alike, realized this was not going to end with third blood, but likely with the first death. Even as they tried to stop the match, the crowd gasped in shock.

Ausar’s left knife was gone, dropped in the grass while the second is buried in Laurence’s hamstring. But it’s the sword through Ausar’s chest that everyone is staring at.

Laurence releases the sword and strides towards the raised dais where the Council sits, but he is an island of normalcy in a sea of absolute chaos. He has just killed the Master of the Scouts and does not seem bothered by it. Shouts of outrage, arguments, pulled bolt pistols, fistfights, absolute bedlam. Only Ghur sees Ausar drag himself into a kneeling position and pull the sword from his chest in one ragged motion. In that moment, Ausar looks up at the rioting stands and sees the death of duty. He sees everything and nothing in the crowd and perhaps it is that moment when he lets the Dark Gods into his heart.

The planet erupts into civil war within twenty-four hours.

It is a short but cataclysmic war, largely because Chapter Master Laurence called on the Inquisition for support and to act as an arbiter. He and his followers believe in glory, the Chapter, and the Imperium above all else, even to their own destruction. Those who follow Ausar realize somethings are more important. Things like survival, friends, family, practicality, and human lives.

There are defections from the upper echelons of the Chapter to Ausar’s side. Lone battle brothers who slipped away in the night or entire squads who planted their standard and walked out the front door of the Fortress-Monastery in protest. Eighteen from First Company arrive with Terminator plate and a still-smoking homing beacon. Only five from Second Company, the supposedly snooty assault squadrons, but they arrive covered in soot, flare burns, and the scars of battle. They had been forced to fight their way out. Ausar welcomed each one by name, exhausted but determined to make things right. The people are on their side, the Emperor must be on their side, he will not countenance any other way.

The war continues.

Ghûr arrives with a caravan of refugees, some 200,000 people and serfs from across the continent.

The Inquisition arrives and begins firing upon the surface of Connaught.

Ausar decides on a strike to the Fortress Monastery during a rainy night, a running battle towards the Chapter Master’s quarters, boots slick with mud, blood, and spent shell casings, but the rooms are empty.

Ausar heads to the Techmarine’s tower, only to find Laurence already there. While there is no record of what they said to one another, the result is clear from orbit as a half-finished Warp Drive detonates. Perhaps that is when the Gods entered Ausar.

There is another battle in the ruins of the tower, things whispering and screaming around them both, warning and promising power in equal measure. Perhaps they both accept. Perhaps they both ignore the voices. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. Only the Gods know the truth and it is doubtful they would ever say so.

Ausar’s axe, _Lunarium_ clashes one last time against Laurence’s _Crissegia_ and this time it is Laurence with a blade buried in his chest. This time, Ausar finishes his foe. Perhaps this is when he falls, holding the head of his enemy, the cause of all his planet’s misery, seeing the Inquisition ships in orbit begin to launch lance strikes at his beloved Fortress Monastery, now in ruins.

The remaining Marines flee in every battleship they can board, including Ausar's flagship, renamed the _ill Will_.

Time passes.

They fall.

But, they do not fall far. The lessons Ausar taught them in the war still serve them well. They despise the Imperium they once tried to protect, seeing the Inquisition and their former Chapter as traitors for choosing Laurence over Ausar, so the new Sons of the Harvest intend to pay them back in full.

They hold their brothers above all else, no matter what the Gods whisper to them and no matter what promises are made, or threats carried out, they do not break again. Many would never even consider betraying their fellow warriors an option and will even sacrifice themselves to save a brother’s life. Ausar’s apothecary training is implemented and quickly. Geneseed survival spikes sharply and soon the Marines swell to above-Chapter strength. Such a development is hastened by the arrival of Warpsmith Xylon, Krosis the Wandering Sorcerer, and Dark Apostle Undaran. Theirs are tales to be told another time, but they introduce the Sons to many things. Daemon engines, sorcerous subterfuge, and the warp magic of the Dark Gods.

The Sons of the Harvest are largely neutral on the subject of Chaos Worship, believing it to be a powerful but dangerous tool and pay careful attention to those marked by the Gods. Most prefer to worship a specific god privately, but Dark Apostle Undaran has reworked the old cathedral of the God-Emperor into a beautiful stained-glass monument to Chaos Undivided.

The most common mutation has proven to be facial features, some marines gaining rather foul visages which their brethren take to with caution and then eventually good humor. Fortunately, beyond the structure and strictures of the Codex Astartes, away from the weight of expectations, the space marines can at last be themselves. Discipline is not gone, but it has relaxed significantly so the formerly foreign concept of free time is one they now have in abundance. Many marines take up hobbies or educate themselves. Some spend their time learning from the humans amongst the ships, silently or wryly absorbing information from young and old alike. The sight of a marine in patched pants idly clicking away with miniature sewing needles no longer draws stares, while romantic relations spring up like weeds. Between Astartes, between marines and members of the crew, even in one case the barracks crowed about for weeks, between a marine and a tech-priestess. As a result, the Marines are less condescending to their serfs and those humans they know well, but they do not hesitate to order their militia-cultists to their deaths on the battlefield. Such groups become known informally as "the Chaff", from which promising recruits or Warp-touched individuals are selected for the gene-seed process.

The Sons of the Harvest sail the stars as Corsair-Lords, their small fleet always on the run from the Imperial Inquisition or their Loyalist brothers, but are always ready to turn and fight if numbers, ship class, or the environment favors them. Their flagship, the Ill Will, deserves special consideration and will be discussed separately.

A Record of the Chapter, dictated by the Ancient Dreadnought Ghûr-M42. 718


End file.
